Look At My Life, I'm A Lot Like You
by BurnThoseEyesBlue
Summary: Mummy's disappeared again, and you know what that means. *ENOLA HOLMES AU*
1. Chapter 1 - Meet Enola

**Surprise, I'm back in this fandom again, after 3 years of absence. Miss me?**

 **I recently read the Enola Holmes books and LOVED them. So take this crossover/AU thing I just _had_ to write. If you haven't read those series, I highly recommend you do, but essentially, what you need to know is that Enola is Sherlock's and Mycroft' younger sister. Like, decades younger. The original books are set in the Victorian age, and Enola runs from her brothers when their mother runs away so she doesn't get shipped off to boarding school. I've tried to put as many Easter eggs from the original books as possible into this, but of course, this is a modern-day AU.**

 **I have no beta, and this isn't Britpicked. Any mistakes are my own. I don't own BBC Sherlock or the character of Enola Holmes.**

 **Tell me what you think!**

* * *

The flat is eerily quiet, Sherlock observes, when John is not home. It's almost lonely, and Sherlock doesn't like it. He frowns and flips to press his face into the couch cushions, ignoring vapid musings of the talk show host on the crap show he'd been watching. His phone buzzes, and he lifts a hand to fumble for it, bringing it up to his face with interest.

 **Mummy's disappeared. Again. - MH**

Sherlock's interest immediately fizzles out. Shifting onto his back, he taps out a quick reply.

 **Not my problem. - SH**

He sets his phone on his chest and wonders where Mummy could have run off to. When he was a child, she always told him stories of traveling with the Rromani people. That's the first place he'd look.

 **Why are you telling me this? You're the one set to inherit the estate. - SH**

 **Don't be ridiculous, Sherlock. We have bigger concerns to worry about. - MH**

 **Like? - SH**

 **Enola. - MH**

Ooh, Sherlock winces. He forgot about Enola. Sherlock taps his phone to his chest twice and scowls. He presses a button and lifts his phone to his ear, pushing up from his sprawl on the couch and dancing over to grab his coat.

The phone rings once before Mycroft picks up, the familiar weary sigh instantly grating on Sherlock's nerves.

"Why must I be involved in this?" Sherlock says childishly. He presses his phone in between his cheek and shoulder and shrugs on the Belstaff over his dressing gown. "Mummy made it very clear we were not to be involved in Enola's affairs. I've met the girl once!"

"Mummy always said you would be a poor influence on her," Mycroft says mildly. "I've personally met Enola three times."

Sherlock blows an annoyed raspberry into the speaker of the phone and listens to another one of Mycroft's annoyed huffs.

"Believe me," Mycroft says, the sneer in his voice evident. "I would prefer nothing else than to handle this... situation on my own."

"But?" Sherlock wraps his scarf around his neck and ruffles his hair, swinging the door to the flat closed.

"Enola requested for the both of us come." At Sherlock's stunned silence, Mycroft gives a little laugh. "Surprising, I know. I think she's a rather big fan of John's blog."

Sherlock groans, bounding lightly down the stairs. Mrs. Hudson is clanking dishes now in her kitchen, and he sniffs the air, idly wondering when she made the switch to off-brand detergent.

"How long will this little meeting take place?" Sherlock drawls, waltzing outside and pulling the door knocker crooked, the way John does it. "Busy. Clients. You know how it is."

"Get in the car, Sherlock," Mycroft says. The CCTV camera is pointed in his direction as a warning, and Sherlock swallows down the urge to ignore it and walk. He slides into the sleek black car waiting and hangs up the phone. Mycroft's assistant is already sitting there, typing away hurriedly on her BlackBerry.

"Sherlock," she greets, not bothering to look up. He sniffs, sticks his nose in the air, and doesn't deign to give her a proper response. She smiles to herself.

"You know, I hope your sister turns out to be much more charming than you," she tells him. He scowls, and the drive to Mycroft's office is tense.

* * *

Sherlock barges into Mycroft's office, already planning on shutting down any arguments his brother might use in defense. "I don't want the estate, nor am I interested in tracking down Mummy. I have no interest in taking a trip down to the house. You like control, Mycroft, and I'm giving it to you. What more could you possibly want from me?"

Mycroft stands behind his desk and clears his throat in a peeved warning. "Pay him no heed, Enola; he's just being his usual childish self."

Sherlock falters a bit. A little chair swivels around in front of the desk, and a mischievous looking teenage girl grins at him. Sherlock blinks. Was Enola a teenager already?

"Well?" Enola says, looking over her shoulder to Mycroft. "Aren't you going to invite him to sit down?"

Mycroft flaps a hand towards the seat next to her, a slight crease between his eyes, and Enola grins, pleased. Sherlock eases down, momentary shock at how grown up she's become fading away into the familiar beats of logic and observation.

Thirteen, no fourteen, years old now, obviously higher than average intelligence, bitten nails from worry at the situation - more of a one time thing, a childhood habit resurrected - scuffed clothes pants a tad too short for her age, leaves still stuck in her hair from climbing trees, scraped knees from bike riding, really now, does this girl act her age?

He shakes his head slightly to clear away the observations. He raises an eyebrow at her studying him just as intently.

"I've met you all of once," Sherlock says, not beating around the bush. "Why, pray tell, am I here?"

Enola tilts her head to the side. "You're my brother," she says, like it's obvious and Sherlock's the dumb one for not getting it.

Sherlock bites back the urge to make a face. Sentiment, he thinks. He doesn't disagree, but with one glance at Mycroft, he knows he's thinking the same thing. Enola observes the look between the two of them, a flash of envy flitting across her face.

 _Ah,_ Sherlock thinks. _Jealous. Desires a close sibling relationship. More sentiment. Boring._

"Let's get down to business, shall we?" Mycroft says. He spreads out a panel of folders on his desk. Enola grabs one and flips through it, pleasant expression gone in a flash. "I've already gone ahead and gathered for you a list of the top boarding schools in the country," Mycroft says. "Cost is no expense. Your trust fund will do adequately. And I assume Mummy left you additional money, too?"

Enola ignores him. "I'm not going to a boarding school," she sneers, setting the folder back on the desk.

Mycroft blinks and smiles, the fakeness of which threatens to blind Sherlock. "Of course you are," he dismisses. "Your education prior to now has been rather... lackluster. Can you believe it, Sherlock? Mummy would never have dared to send us to a public sector school."

Sherlock rolls his eyes, not interested in backing Mycroft up in the slightest. He drags his fingertips over the nearest file, flipping it open and crinkling his nose at the cost of annual tuition.

 _What a waste of money_ , he thinks, a slight sneer on his face, _for an education geared more towards molding her to becoming a proper lady than truly teaching the subjects that matter._

"Mummy must have been losing her touch," Mycroft continues, unaware to Enola's bristling. "We'll find her, don't worry. But of course, her guardianship has been transferred to me now," Enola's squawk interrupts him, and Sherlock looks up, eyebrow raised.

Enola's face is red with anger now, with her nails digging into the palms of her hands and both feet pressed against the floor, ready to spring up. "You can't just do that!" she spits, and Mycroft narrows his eyes. "I don't want you as my guardian!"

"It's already been done," he says coolly. "Mummy has proven to be unfit for guardianship; this is not the first time she's run off, leaving me, with the, ah, _pleasure_ of caring for yet another of my younger siblings." He spits out pleasure the same way he would say burden, and the three of them know it. Enola lets out a strangled huff, trying to calm herself down and think of a plan; her eyes grow steely, and her hands curl into fists by her side. Sherlock notices this and can't help the way the corners of his mouth twitch up; in a way, it reminds him of John, just a little. It's the same pose John made when he accidentally grabbed that disembodied foot in from the fridge a few weeks back and was ready to fight.

The smile, however, does not pass by Mycroft unnoticed. "Is something funny, brother mine?" he says, unamused. Enola swings her gaze towards him, looking at him with something akin to desperation in her eyes. The desperate look in her eyes transforms into something calculating, and she appraises him with a new look. Sherlock processes this for approximately 0.89 of a second before sneering at Mycroft. He has a plan, both to get Enola what she wants and to shove it to Mycroft.

"221B has an open bedroom," Sherlock says casually, examining the back of his hand. He tilts his chin upward, prepared for battle.

Enola seems to know what he's planning, because her face lights up immediately. Mycroft's, on the other hand, becomes more guarded, and Sherlock leans slightly forward, opening his mouth to continue.

"Absolutely not," Mycroft says. Sherlock shuts his mouth with a click and meets his gaze evenly. "And last I checked, both rooms were still occupied. Alone." The dig cuts a little, but Sherlock ignores it.

"John can sleep on the couch," Sherlock says. Mycroft gives him another pointed look, and Sherlock sighs, rolling his eyes. "Fine, _I_ will sleep on the couch."

"How very chivalrous of you," Mycroft simpers, and Sherlock makes a face.

Enola clears her throat, interrupting their glaring and drawing both of their gazes to her. "Sounds good to me," she says. Mycroft studies her evenly, taking in the way her chin points upward, the way her eyes shine bright with determination. Sherlock knows that Mycroft is seeing him in her face, and he knows that the battle is over.

Sherlock inclines his head in Enola's direction, a subtle way to back her up. Her eyes are fixed pointedly on their oldest brother. Mycroft flicks his gaze to Sherlock briefly and lets out a long, heavy breath through his nose. He presses a button on the inside of his desk, and the door opens to reveal Anthea, who's texting, as always.

"Sir?" she says, looking up from her Blackberry and settling her gaze on her boss.

"Take my sister to gather up her possessions, and go ahead and purchase anything else she needs." Enola looks a little shocked at that, and Mycroft turns towards her, eyebrow raised. "Sister mine, no matter what you believe, we _are_ on the same side." He hands her a credit card and dismisses both her and Anthea with a wave of his hand.

Enola mumbles an awkward thank you, stands up, and turns to follow Anthea. Anthea gives her a once over with a polite smile before turning on her heel and walking out.

"I hope you know what you're doing, Sherlock," Mycroft warns as they watch Enola skip down the hall after Anthea. Anthea, as if she knows they're both watching her, looks over her shoulder and smirks at Sherlock. "Enola isn't another experiment you can just discard when bored with."

"You mean, like Mummy did?" Sherlock says, standing up and pulling his coat on. Mycroft shuts his mouth with a click, the corners of his mouth twisting down. Sherlock smirks briefly to himself. Check.

Mycroft tries another approach. "What will John say about this?" he presses his hands together and looks at Sherlock evenly, wheels obviously turning in his mind.

Sherlock winds his scarf around his neck and turns his coat collar up. He turns and raises an eyebrow. "John will be..."

Thrilled? Confused? Angry? A trickle of doubt pushes its way into Sherlock's mind, and he hesitates. Mycroft sees this and hands the files of boarding schools to Sherlock.

"Think about it," he says. Sherlock grabs the stack and tucks them into his coat. "It isn't too late." Without another word, Sherlock spins on his heel and walks out.

* * *

Enola is already neatly deposited in the flat by the time Sherlock arrives. She stands next to a small stack of boxes. Sherlock kicks one on his way past and peers inside - clothes and other essentials. Dull. Enola stares. A duffle bag rests at her feet, and she gives him a warning look, picking it up to avoid him kicking it.

Sherlock rolls his eyes, pulling off his coat in one fluid motion and leaving it dumped on the floor. He heads into the kitchen to check on some growing mold cultures he'd left in the warming drawer. He can hear her hesitating, shifting her weight on the floor, wondering if she should follow.

She deliberates for a few moments - taking the time to actually hang up his jacket, a typical John move - and pads behind him into the kitchen, watching as he takes one of the slides and puts it under the microscope. She's practically boring holes into his skull, and he feels the corner of his lips start to curl back in an annoyed sneer.

"You have questions," he says. The annoyance bleeds through in his voice, but at least he wasn't outright cruel. Enola picks up on it anyway.

"Where do I need to put my stuff?" she asks.

"Leave it. Next?"

She hesitates a moment. "Where am I going to sleep?"

"My room. Down the hall to the right. Unless you'd prefer the couch?" He hears her hair rustling as she shakes her head, and he mutters out a brief "Didn't think so."

She's silent again, and he turns his head and peers into the eyes so similar to his own. "Any other questions?" he asks, somewhat sarcastically.

"What are you doing?" she asks, nodding her head to his microscope. He studies her a moment. She's genuinely curious, not just asking in a vain attempt to make him like her more. He leans back and gestures for her to take a look.

She grins and scampers over, using one hand to keep her long hair pulled back away from the dishes. She looks a lot like him, he realizes. It's the curve of her nose, the high cheekbones, the long face. They both take after their father, in that.

She studies the experiment with narrowed eyes, ignoring his appraisal. "Well, it looks like you're measuring bacterial growth on... is this human flesh?!" she asks, jerking back with wide eyes.

"Yes," he says matter-of-factly. He blinks, a new thought flitting through his mind. _Don't tell me she's squeamish,_ he thinks.

She's silent for a moment as her eyes dance over his face. "Cool," she says, breaking out into a grin. "How does the growth on skin compare to growth on other organs?"

Sherlock decides right then that he's going to enjoy living with her.

* * *

"So," Enola mumbles around a mouthful of noodles. Sherlock raises an eyebrow and presses the tips of his fingers together, eyeing the dripping grease from the take-out. "When's Dr. Watson getting back?"

"Two days," Sherlock says. He holds out a handful of napkins, and she gets up from the sofa to grab them.

"Where did he go?" she asks, sitting down across from him in John's chair. Sherlock opens his mouth to answer and blinks, watching her like she's crazy.

She freezes, looking down at her lap and patting her thighs. "What? Did I spill something?"

"That's John's chair," he says.

Enola just looks at him for a few moments. "He's not using it."

Sherlock gives her a suspicious look, but turns his head to the side, dropping it. "He's attending some medical conference for the surgery."

"Sounds boring," Enola says, making a face. Sherlock nods absently in agreement. She eats in comfortable silence for a few minutes, watching curiously as her brother sits in his chair and stares at the wall.

"You know, Mummy and I read his blog," Enola says. Her face flickers at the mention of Mummy, and Sherlock is suddenly apprehensive of the fact that she may start crying.

He watches her out of the corner of his eye and makes a vague humming noise. Enola seems to take that as a positive sign to continue.

"Did the police really not know he was the one to shoot that cabbie?" Enola asks, crinkling her nose. "Mummy thought that was obvious." The corners of Sherlock's mouth tip upward into the barest hints of a smile.

"Mmm. No. Lestrade suspects, but he's never going to act on it."

"Why not?"

Sherlock shrugs.

Enola taps her fingers onto the armrest. "Do you really not know that the Earth goes around the Sun?"

Sherlock audibly groans and shoots her a scathing look. "Well, nobody lets me hear the end of it now not to remain unaware."

Enola holds her hands up in mock surrender and tucks her feet up under her, setting the plate on the ground beside the chair. She watches him with a knowing look, and Sherlock grows instantly wary.

"You like John," she says. It wasn't a question, but a mere statement of fact. Sherlock's eyebrows shoot up, and he swiftly turns his head to look at her.

"What makes you say that?" he asks. "Don't tell me you deduced it?" he sneers.

Enola tilts her head to the side and studied his face. "Mummy and I have a bet going on it. It's okay, you know. If you do."

Sherlock stares at her impassively. "I know it's okay," he says. He hears the familiar words from his first dinner with John echo in his mind and ignores them.

Enola rests her chin in one of her hands. "I had a crush on a girl named Cecily at my old school," she says dreamily, eyes somewhere faraway. "She was one of the most talented charcoal sketchers I've ever seen. I thought we were soulmates."

Sherlock stares at her for a moment, gaze flickering between uncomfortableness and defensiveness. "Why are you telling me this?" Sherlock asks.

Enola sits back up and locks her gaze on his. "It's what siblings do," she says.

"Mycroft and I have never discussed this. Nor his strange attraction to Detective Inspector Lestrade."

Enola raises an eyebrow, and Sherlock knows she's filing that tidbit away for later blackmail. "I meant normal siblings," she corrects. Sherlock sneers.

"Dull. If you wanted to live here in order for you to have a 'normal' sibling relationship, you will be sorely disappointed." Sherlock says in a low voice. Enola squirms in her seat, and Sherlock decides to reveal what he observed earlier. "Ah, so that _is_ the reason why you're here. You've placed your misguided affections on me. You think I'll be a good big brother."

Sherlock opens his mouth to completely refute the deductions, but instead he takes in how flushed Enola's face is, how she lowers her gaze to her lap, bracing for him to absolutely rip her apart, how she seems to curl in on herself just a little, and for some reason it stops him. He closes his mouth and inhales deeply, beginning to speak in a quiet voice.

"I cannot promise I will be successful. However, I am... not adverse to trying, as long as you make no future attempts to discuss your romantic feelings with me." Inwardly, he's horrified with himself. Where did that sentiment come from?

Enola's head snaps back up, and she immediately throws out her arms and hugs him around the waist. Sherlock grimaces, patting her on the shoulder awkwardly.

She peeks up at him and grins sheepishly. "No hugging either?"

"No."

"Seriously?"

"No!"

Enola still doesn't move. He taps her on the shoulder, and she presently ignores him.

"Yoo-hoo! Sherlock!" Sherlock turns his head to the door as Mrs. Hudson makes her way up the stairs.

"Ah, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock says with relief. His saving grace. Enola sits back, staring at the door curiously.

Mrs. Hudson sticks her head through the door and smiles, letting herself in. "Just checking in on you. It must be so hard without John here. No one to pick up after you." She frowns at the big pile of boxes in the middle of the floor and sidesteps them to tidy up the table.

Sherlock hums. He ignores the knowing look and snicker from Enola.

Mrs. Hudson's gaze lands on Enola, and she gasps. "Oh, I didn't know you had a client! I'll just come back later, then. I'm sorry, Dear." She turns to go, but Sherlock trots after her and twists her back around. Enola stands up, looking simultaneously excited and nervous.

"Mrs. Hudson, this isn't a client. This is Enola, my sister." Mrs. Hudson's eyes grow wide, and Enola smiles nervously.

"Oh, I didn't know you had a sister! Why, she looks just like you. I knew she wasn't a client. Same cheekbones and everything." Reflectively, Enola lifts a hand and brushes it against her left cheekbone. Mrs. Hudson hurries over to her and envelops her in a hug.

"Yes, yes," Sherlock says impatiently. "She'll be living here for a while. She takes her tea with milk and three tablespoons of sugar, for future reference."

Enola blinks a little in surprise, but doesn't question it. Mrs. Hudson gasps again, placing the palms of her hands on each of Enola's cheeks and beams.

"Finally, another woman in the flat!" she exclaims. Sherlock rolls his eyes and turns away to go pick up his violin and the cleaning polish.

Enola chats for a little bit, asking about the flat and how long she's had it, even managing to seem politely interested when Mrs. Hudson complains about her hip. Eventually, the subject turns back to Sherlock, and Mrs. Hudson turns to him, waving a hand absently.

"Oh, Sherlock, what does John have to say about all this?"

Sherlock stops his polishing for a moment and lifts up the violin to the light, focusing on a tiny speck of dirt and directly avoiding her gaze.

"John is unaware of the present situation," Sherlock mutters.

Mrs. Hudson and Enola both gape at him.

"You didn't tell him!?" Enola whirls on him. She scowls at him, and oh, there's her resemblance to Mycroft. Sherlock knew it had to have been hidden there somewhere.

"Oh, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson frets. "You're supposed to communicate with your significant other." She says something else, scolding and chiding, but he turns away and tunes them out. Mrs. Hudson, seeing that he's not paying attention, scowls for a moment before turning back to 221B's newest inhabitant.

"Don't worry, dear," Mrs. Hudson says to Enola, patting her lightly on the hand. "John's going to love you, if you're anything like Sherlock." She says something else, but Sherlock is too busy reviewing potential reactions John might have in his mind palace to pay attention. She walks out, and immediately Enola stalks over to him. He sets down his violin, and she holds out his phone, snagged from behind the cushions in his chair.

"Text him," she scowls. "Now."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Mycroft probably has already."

"Don't you think he would prefer to hear it from you?" Enola counters. Sherlock blinks. Can't really argue with that.

He delicately picks up his phone, flipping it over in his hands and bringing up his messages app. He types with one hand and sends it, setting it down and waiting for a reply.

Enola looks over his shoulder. "That doesn't sound quite like the news that 'Surprise! Your flatmate's younger sister is now staying with you' entails." She reads the message again, tilting her head to the side and furrowing her brow. "And technically, you didn't even do that; Anthea did."

 **I bought milk. - SH**

Sherlock looks at the text again. "Just be glad I'm texting him in the first place." Sherlock says. His phone lights up with the response, and Enola snickers when she reads it.

 **Alright, what did you break?**

 **Nothing. - SH**

 **Somehow I don't quite believe that. Shall I text Mycroft then?**

 **Unnecessary. I have a surprise for you. - SH**

 **For me?**

 **Well, it's something that's going to surprise you. - SH**

 **Are we getting a dog?**

 **Not quite. - SH**

"Hey!" Enola protests. She lightly kicks Sherlock in the shins, and he wonders how such familiarity was already established.

 **I can't decide if this is going to be a good thing or a bad thing.**

 **It's good. - SH**

 **Would you like to know what it is now? - SH**

 **Nah, gotta have something to get me through the rest of this conference. Thanks for thinking of me :)**

Sherlock smirks and shows Enola the text proudly.

She rolls her eyes. "Fine. But if he blows his top, I warned you." She bends down and picks up her plate, depositing it in the trash can, yawning. "I'm going to bed. Night, Sherlock."

He doesn't reply, too busy thinking of a witty way to surprise John when he gets home.

 **Always. - SH**

* * *

When Sherlock wakes up the next morning, Enola is sitting in his chair eating some cold sandwich Mrs. Hudson brought up, eyes fixed on the telly.

"'M bored," she mumbles. "I've been waiting on you to get up for _hours_."

"I'm sorry my unconscious state was such an inconvenience," Sherlock snaps, wincing at the crick in his neck from sleeping at an awkward angle. This, he realizes, is what John must feel like most of the time.

He gets up and stretches, pulling his dressing gown tighter across his shoulders and fumbles around for his phone. John never texted back, ah, but he got a text from Molly! Sherlock bends down and rummages around in one of Enola's boxes, still lying packed in the middle of the floor.

"Get dressed," Sherlock says, throwing a pair of trousers at her. "We're going to Bart's."

Sherlock strides into the morgue. Molly has already wheeled out the body. He casts a quick glance over it - male, roughly 60 years old, shot twice in the right-hand side of the chest, puncturing one lung, significant blood loss and trauma - and turns to Molly, who's standing by, holding his riding crop and the autopsy file, skimming over it.

"Molly," Sherlock says by way of greeting. She startles and turns pink, caught unaware in his presence. She stutters out a greeting, and Sherlock forces a smile that probably looks more like a grimace. He holds out a hand, and she places the file in it. One quick glance shows him that most of his deductions were right. He smiles to himself, satisfied, and Molly starts talking about strange metal flecks left in the wound that weren't from the bullet.

He's taking a closer look at the lower gunshot hole, Molly peering over his shoulder, when Enola trots in, ponytail swinging high and a bright smile on her face.

"Sorry, I got sidetracked. I met Mike! By the way, he wants to know how John is and says to call him and tell him how you two 'lovebirds' are working out." Sherlock opens his mouth, and Enola holds up her hands in mock surrender. "His words; not mine." Enola's gaze flits to Molly and she smiles politely. "Hi!"

Sherlock straightens, glancing at Molly. Molly's staring at Enola, mouth slightly slack-jawed. "Who's this?" she asks faintly. Her eyes flit from Sherlock's face to Enola's, obviously picking up on family relation, and judging from the slight disappointed expression, a parent-child one.

"This is Enola," Sherlock says. "Enola, Molly." He dismisses them both, turning back to the body.

"It's nice to meet you," Enola says politely. She's studying Molly curiously, and she extends her hand towards her. Molly strips off one of her gloves and walks forward to shake it.

"Are you Sherlock's...?"

"Sister, yeah," Enola says. Molly looks a little shocked, and Enola shrugs.

"But you're so..." Molly trails off, and Enola fills in the blanks.

"Young? I know; I'm only fourteen. I'm twenty years younger than him. Bit of an accident, little bit of a scandal. My poor mother."

"Oh," Molly says. She seems a little overwhelmed by Enola, and one glance towards his sister shows that she knows exactly what she's doing. She rambles on, asking Molly questions about her job, about the bodies, about working with Sherlock, and soon enough Molly warms up to her and they're both chattering away.

Sherlock loathes it.

He tightens his grip on his magnifier and scowls down at the dead man below him. He can't _concentrate_ like this, with their mindless babbling, and he can feel his shoulders tensing up.

"Coffee," he spits out. Molly and Enola stop talking for long enough to look at him. "Get me some. I need some."

Enola shrugs. "I could go for some coffee," she says. Molly agrees, casting a doubting look at Sherlock, and they walk out, Enola talking about the insensitivity of the male population in regards to the Holmes brothers with an overly dramatic hair flip.

It's peaceful, after that. As it should be, Sherlock tells the corpse, who thankfully doesn't respond.

* * *

"What other colleagues can I meet?" Enola asks when they walk out of Bart's. Enola's already texting away on her phone, confirming the number Molly had given her to further discuss patterns of bruise developments post mortem. "Let's go to Scotland Yard!"

Sherlock shoots her a look of disdain. "Lestrade has no interesting cases," he says. Out of the corner of his eye he sees a video camera swivel and point in their direction, and he eyeballs it distrustingly.

"So?" Enola pleads. "I just wanna see it!"

"I am not taking you on a tourist's jaunt through London," he sneers. He steps off the curb and hails a taxi, pushing his sister in and climbing in after.

"Baker Street," he says, and the cabbie takes off. Enola looks disappointed, but she doesn't fight it.

She spends the rest of the day prattling on about Molly and her not-so-hidden crush on Sherlock. Sherlock thinks that he would have done better at Scotland Yard. Thank God for the fact that John comes back tomorrow; he'll be much more adept at entertaining the girl than he is.

* * *

John trudges up the seventeen stairs to his flat, his suitcase banging into the back of his legs. It's early, but all he wants is a nice, hot shower and to crash in his own bed for the first time in almost two weeks.

He fumbles his way into the flat, almost tripping over a pile of boxes stacked in the middle of the floor. He mutters a curse and grabs the table to steady himself. Sherlock, who's curled up on the sofa, stirs but doesn't wake.

"Careful," an unfamiliar female voice says with amusement. "There's a box there."

John freezes at the voice and jerks his head up, hand automatically going to the back of his trousers where his gun is normally tucked. It's a girl, he notices. A teenager. He relaxes marginally.

"Thanks for that," he says drily. The girl grins at him, and John takes the moment to really look at her.

She's younger than he initially thought, in sweatpants and a baggy tank top, curly hair pulled in a ponytail. She holds a bowl of cereal in one hand, Sherlock's laptop in the other, and she's curled up in Sherlock's chair.

"Kettle's boiled," she says, waving a hand towards the kitchen. "In case you want a cuppa. Help yourself."

John blinks and takes a quick look around. "Uh, sorry, am I in the wrong flat?" he asks, letting his suitcase drop on the ground.

"Nope," she says, letting the noise pop in her mouth.

"Are you a client?" John tries again. She shakes her head, a gleam in her eyes. "Who- Who are you exactly?"

"Please sit," the girl says. John trudges over to his chair and sits down, eyeing her warily. He glances over at Sherlock, silently willing him to wake up _now_. "I just have a few questions for you. If you don't mind."

"I mean, I kinda do, but-"

"Good!" she interrupts. "First, what is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?"

John blinks. There was something about this that was almost familiar. "He's... literally on the couch over there; it's pretty obvious we live together. You could've just waken him up and asked." Suddenly, John barks a laugh, remembering just what this scene reminds him of. "Did Mycroft put you up to this?"

The girl smiles at that, and John frowns a bit. "Nope."

"Wait, you know Mycroft?" John asks in disbelief. "Who are you?!"

The girl's smile grows. "You could say we're acquainted," she says. "But hey, _I'm_ asking the questions here." She regards John for a moment before leaning in and whispering.

"Although, he did tell me about your first meeting," she says casually. "But you didn't hear it from me. Next question, what are your intentions towards my brother?"

"Your... brother?!" John exclaims in disbelief. His mind screeched to a stop.

"Enola, stop toying with John," Sherlock says from the couch, eyes still closed and limbs sprawled everywhere. John whips around and stares at him accusingly, but Sherlock doesn't acknowledge it.

"Boring," Enola mutters, and suddenly, John is completely and utterly horrified.

 _My God_ , he thinks. _There's another one of them._

"My name's Enola," the girl says, beaming at John. "And it's so nice to finally meet you. Sherlock's told me so much about you."

John looks at Sherlock hesitantly. Sherlock's head is turned in his direction, and he has what's as close to what he can get as a sheepish smile on his face.

"Surprise, John."

* * *

"So," John says, looking at both Holmes's with an incredulous look on his face. "You're telling me that your mother ran away, not even for the first time, to go join some traveling Rromani tribe? And she left her fourteen year old daughter?"

"Oh, do keep up, John," Sherlock drawls. "That is what Enola said, was it not?"

John ignores his flatmate, looking at Enola. "Why didn't she take you with her?"

Enola shrugs. "I don't know," she says, trying to look aloof about the whole situation and failing. "She said I could handle myself. She left money. I called Mycroft."

"And somehow you ended up here," John finishes.

Enola smiles. "Sherlock said he had an open room."

"I wanted to shove it to Mycroft," her brother corrects petulantly.

"Did you give up my room?!" John asks Sherlock, who rolls his eyes.

"Of course not." Sherlock says, offended. "She's in mine."

"He's on the couch," Enola says triumphantly. John snickers at that, and Sherlock shoots him a wounded look.

"Is this a temporary situation?" John asks. Enola raises an eyebrow, and he hastily tacks on a "I don't mean to be rude."

"Mummy's not coming back," Sherlock says. "Nor are we going to be able to find her. Not unless she wants to be found."

"Are you even looking?"

"Mycroft is," Sherlock replies. "But no, this is a rather... permanent situation."

"Oh," John says. Enola looks a little sad at the mention of her mother, so he does his best to smile reassuringly at her. "Welcome to 221B."

She beams, and John sits back, satisfied. She studies Sherlock for a moment before turning back to John with a devious grin on her face.

"Climbing is my forté, and I like riding bikes. Black Beauty is my favorite novel, and I'm particularly fond of old-timey ciphers and sketching. Occasionally I'm privy to little moments of drama, but I'm afraid you're quite used to that." She rattles all of this off with that smug little smile, and John blinks at her before getting it.

"I see," he says, grinning back at her. "Well, I'm secretly a fan of dogs, I keep an illegal gun hidden in my room, and I'm extremely lazy most of the time. Oh, and I follow your madman of a brother around London at his beck and call."

Her smile grows, and Sherlock watches them both, eyes narrowed. "What are you doing?"

"Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other," Enola finishes the dialogue, and Sherlock pauses for a moment, eyes faraway as he goes through his Mind Palace for the original memory.

Enola snickers under her breath, and John winks at her.

Sherlock comes back to life, scowling. "Hilarious," he says sarcastically. "Is this what this arrangement has come to? You two teaming up on me?"

Enola and John exchange another look.

"I don't see why not," John says. Enola nods rapidly, a devious grin in her face.

"What has my life come to?" Sherlock intones dramatically, flipping around on the couch so his back faces them and sulking. He can practically hear John roll his eyes as he shuffles off to go make himself tea.

"Your life, Brother Mine," he hears Enola murmur, "is never going to be the same."

* * *

 **I'm thinking about continuing this AU with more one-shots. Tell me what y'all think. R &R! **


	2. Chapter 2 - School & Friends

**Here's the next installment in the Enola AU. I'm having a blast writing this. See how many nods to the original books you can find in this one!**

 **I'm on Tumblr, if anyone wants to talk to me. Come find me at anakien!**

 **Also, this still isn't Britpicked or beta'ed, so pardon any mistakes you see. I don't know where the nearest Tube station to Baker Street is, so let's just pretend it's a bit of a walk, lol.**

 **Enjoy.**

* * *

"Sherlock," John growls, slamming the fridge door shut and stomping out into the living room. "What did I tell you about not labeling body parts?"

Enola looks up curiously from Sherlock's chair, texting wildly without looking at the keys. Sherlock doesn't bother to turn around, his back to the kitchen as he types up a new ash study for his website.

"Not me," Sherlock mutters.

"Well, I didn't do it," John snaps. Enola squints a little at the bloody bag in his hand.

"Wait, are you talking about the pinkies? Those are mine," she says, giving him a sheepish smile.

John looks back at the bag and sighs, lowering it back down to his side. "Just, we have a word processor for a reason," he says, anger evaporated. He grunts an apology to Sherlock and walks back into the kitchen.

Enola waits a beat before throwing the nearest pillow at her brother. "Your welcome," she says sarcastically. "What's that, the fifth time I've covered for you?"

Sherlock grunts. "John would've gotten over it," he says, unbothered.

"It's called common courtesy," she says, annoyed.

"We did fine before you moved in," Sherlock says. Enola snorts and pushes up, shoving her phone in the back pocket of her jeans.

"Somehow I doubt that. I'm going out," she says. John pokes his head out of the kitchen.

"Grab some milk, will you?" he asks. "We're almost out."

Enola grabs her wallet and slings on her coat. She pulls open the door to the flat, revealing the familiar face of her other brother standing there, unamused, and holding a grocery bag and file.

She groans, and Sherlock looks up, face immediately darkening.

"Mycroft," Sherlock spits. The man in question walks in and stands by the fireplace. John sticks his head back out again, wiping his hands on the back of his pants. His face instantly stills, and he walks out and stands behind Sherlock's chair, arms crossed. Mycroft turns back to Enola and swings his umbrella to point towards her chair. She narrows her eyes, flounces over, and plops down.

"I was just about to go out," Enola says petulantly.

"This won't take long," Mycroft says, a small, unpleasant smile on his face. Mycroft turns to John and holds out the bag. Surprised, John takes it, and pulls out a thing of milk. He gives Mycroft a look with a raised eyebrow. "I noticed you were running low," Mycroft simpers.

John's eyes narrow and flicker to the bookshelf, immediately looking for hidden cameras. Giving up for the moment, he goes to put the milk in the fridge, and Mycroft hands Enola the file he brought. She flips it open and immediately screws up her face.

"Ugh, I still have to go to school?" she groans. Sherlock peeks over the edge of the file at a pamphlet with several smiling teens beaming up at him. He crinkles his nose, and Mycroft shoots him a look.

"Education is a non-negotiable," Mycroft says. "And if you refuse to attend a boarding school, public school is your next best option."

"Can't Sherlock just, I don't know, homeschool me or something?" Enola says, gesturing wildly at the brother in question. "They're wearing uniforms!"

Sherlock and Mycroft exchange a look, and Sherlock barks a laugh, sneering. "I refuse to demean myself to teach pre-algebra," he sniffs.

John walks back in and snickers.

"Your education would be severely lacking in knowledge on the solar system," John pipes up. "Can't have that." Sherlock twists his head around to frown at John, who winks at Enola from his position leaning against the kitchen doorframe. Enola giggles a bit, but still looks unsure.

"This is a compromise, Enola," Mycroft says. "I don't often partake in those." She deliberates on this for a few seconds.

"Will I still be staying here?" Enola asks. "How far away is it?"

Mycroft waves a hand dismissively. "South. You will have to take the Tube, or I can send a car to drive you every day," he says. "It is of no importance to me."

"Yes, please waste the taxpayer dime on chauffeuring your sister around to secondary school," Sherlock mutters. "She can take the Tube."

"Fine," Mycroft says, teeth bared in more of a grimace at his brother than a smile. "Done."

Enola shoots Sherlock a glare. He stares coolly back, and still making eye contact, she addresses Mycroft. "When will I start?"

"Two days." Mycroft says, rolling his eyes at his siblings' shenanigans. "They are only three weeks into the semester. You will have more than adequate time to catch up."

She grimaces. "Do I have to fill out any paperwork?" Enola asks. "I can probably phone my old school for my transcript."

"Anthea has taken care of the bureaucratic red tape of the matter."

Enola looks surprised. "Thank you," she says. Mycroft blinks, but smiles, more genuinely than usual. Sherlock rolls his eyes.

"Don't you have other people to inflict with your presence?" Sherlock says petulantly. Mycroft sighs and shifts his weight, pulling out his phone and checking the time. He raises an eyebrow and places his phone back in his pocket, angling his body towards the door.

"Until next time, sister mine," Mycroft says. He ignores Sherlock, nods once at John, and walks out, swinging his umbrella as he goes.

Sherlock scampers to the window to make sure he actually drives off, Enola tripping on his heels. She peers around his shoulder, and John watches the two of them fondly. As soon as Mycroft is out of sight, Enola scowls and punches her brother's arm.

"That was rude," she says. "He was just helping out."

Sherlock looks affronted and rubs his bicep with a wince. "It's Mycroft," he says, bemused. A look flashes across his eyes, and he sneers at her. "Don't tell me you're getting sentimental about him, now."

Enola shoots him a glare and pushes past him. John's still standing in the doorway, eyebrows now raised at their spat. She flounces past him to where Sherlock's coat is hanging up, reaching in one of the pockets and fishing out his wallet.

"I'm getting school supplies," she says. "Don't wait up." She slams the door shut behind her, and both men can hear her stomping down the stairs.

"Jesus, Sherlock," John says, shaking his head.

Sherlock tilts his head to the side and watches Enola stomp down the street, reaching behind her to flick Sherlock off. He winces imperceptibly. "Not good?"

* * *

Enola stomps back inside that night with a seemingly unlimited supply of bags. John gapes from his chair, the newspaper he's reading folding over so Enola can see he's reading the sports section.

"That's all school supplies?" he asks. "Seems a bit more than in my day."

Enola shrugs. "I picked up some other things, too." John squints at one of the heavier bags in her hand.

"Is that a wig?" he asks, looking up at her with a strange, curious expression.

"Gotta be prepared," she says simply, setting some of the bags on the ground to drop Sherlock's wallet back in his coat.

"Prepared for what, exactly?" John asks slowly. Enola just grins at him and waltzes off to her room, shutting the door quietly behind her.

John hmphs and flicks his newspaper straight again. _Must be a Holmes thing_ , he decides to himself, shrugging and mentally approving of his excellent deduction.

* * *

Enola's lying in her bed at a tremendously early 8:45PM. During dinner, which was really just leftover Italian, Sherlock had given her pointed looks until she'd scampered off to leave him and John alone, making up some excuse about getting enough rest for her first day tomorrow. Even though, you know, she's a Holmes and can survive adequately on approximately 4 hours of sleep a night.

John, however, doesn't quite know that about her yet, and he smiles at her when she walks off to her room. She can still hear every word that they're saying out in the living room if she really tries, and boy, you better believe she's going to.

They talk absently about some case Sherlock's working on, John making positive humming noises whenever Sherlock says something pointedly brilliant in search of adulation. Boring. She thought they were going to make out or something.

The dialogue's almost enough to make her fall asleep, and she's about to drift off when she hears her name pop up in the conversation. She freezes where she lays, holding her breath for a moment. She hears it again and sits up to listening more closely.

"Do you think Moriarty's going to go after her?" she hears John say, and her blood runs cold. She's gotten the brief rundown of what happened at the pool from some of John's unpublished blog posts and from sneaking peeks at Mycroft's files on his desk when she was waiting on him to show up, and it almost frightens her. "Does he know she exists?"

"I don't know," Sherlock says finally. His voice is an even lower mutter than usual, for Enola can barely hear him. "I assume he is aware of her existence, but she isn't a part of the game."

"Yet," John says, and Enola can practically see him point. "She isn't involved _yet_."

"Mycroft will handle security matters at the school," Sherlock says. "I assume he has already forced the hiring of several new teachers that fit the security requirement." His reassurances do nothing for Enola, and she wonders if John is as unconvinced as she is.

Sherlock says something else, but her blood roars in a her ears, and she slowly sinks back down under the blankets, pulling them over her head and doing her best to tune him out.

She dreams that night of wicked laughter and sneering students, of a hallway of lockers that no matter how far she walks, it's endless, and of her brothers watching her struggle.

* * *

Enola frowns and tugs the hem of her skirt down to stay more closely to her knees. She's dressed in the neatly pressed school uniform Anthea dropped off the day before, her bag loaded and draped across her shoulders. She's still jittery from overhearing John and Sherlock's conversation from the night before, and it shows.

"Are you nervous?" John asks, leaning against the kitchen counter and sipping his tea. He watches her slowly and pushes a piece of toast on a plate in her direction.

"Of course not," she scoffs, looking at John like she's anything but. Her stomach flutters against her wishes, and she feels like she's going to throw up. She waves a hand in favor against the toast, knowing she won't be able to force it down.

John raises an eyebrow skeptically but doesn't call her out on it. His phone buzzes from next to him, and he scoops it up to read it.

"It's Mycroft," he says. The corners of his mouth twitch up. "He wants pictures."

Enola's scowl grows even deeper. "Tell him to just filch some from CCTV," she says.

John snorts. "You think he's not going to do that anyway?"

Enola sees his point. She sets her bag at her feet and grimaces at him.

"Make this quick," she says, forcing a smile. John does what she says and takes the picture, sending it to Mycroft. He doesn't respond.

Enola sighs, picking up her bag again. She checks the time on her phone and grimaces. "I guess I need to go," she says. She stands there, hesitant, and John takes a bit of pity on her.

"I have a shift at the clinic today," he says. "Want some company on your walk to the Tube?"

Enola carefully shrugs, acting like she doesn't mind, but a wave of relief washes over her. John grabs his wallet and medical bag and shrugs on his jacket.

"We're leaving now," he tells Sherlock, who's lying prostrate on his couch. Enola stands behind John, looking at her brother with annoyance. John pauses, waiting for Sherlock to respond.

Sherlock grunts.

John tilts his head toward Sherlock. "Aren't you going to wish Enola luck?" he prompts.

Sherlock grunts again and flaps a hand in her direction, shooing them to the door.

John rolls his eyes and shakes his head. "I don't know what I was expecting," he tells Enola, shooting an annoyed look over his shoulder to his flatmate.

She smirks lightly. "Me neither." John holds an arm out, gesturing for her to walk out first, and he shuts the door behind them.

The nearest Tube station is only a few blocks away, and the entire way there, John notices all of the CCTV cameras swivel their way. If Enola sees them too, she doesn't let up on it, instead focusing on scuffing her shoes on the ground and kicking rocks around.

"I'm kinda surprised Mycroft didn't show up," John says, clearing his throat and grabbing her attention. Enola turns to him and makes a face.

"Why?" she asks.

John shrugs. "Seems like the sorta thing he'd do."

Enola ponders that for a moment. "I wouldn't know."

John gives her a funny look. "He's your brother," he says.

"He's also twenty-seven years older than me," Enola says, looking rather amused and at slight 'o' John makes with his mouth. "You know, I'd only met him three times before Mummy ran away."

"Three times?" John repeats, incredulous.

Enola nods. "And Sherlock only once." John splutters for a moment, and Enola continues. "Mycroft dropped in once or twice at the estate. Technically, it was his, but he let Mummy run it for appearances. And I met Sherlock at my father's funeral. I was four. Mummy didn't want him around; the drugs, you know? She and Mycroft agreed he'd be a poor influence on me." She says this all matter-of-factly, as if it wasn't strange to never see your siblings. She shrugs. "I learned more about him from your blog than from Sherlock himself."

John blinks. "Oh," he says, simply because he doesn't know what else to say.

"I'm used to it," Enola says, shrugging her backpack higher up on her shoulders. She swings her arms, absently twirling a piece of hair around her finger. Her eyes, so much like Sherlock's, lock onto his. "What about you? Do you have any siblings?"

"Yeah," John says. "Twin sister. Her name's Harry."

"A twin?" Enola perks up and studies him curiously. "Are you two close?"

John barks out an awkward laugh. "Definitely not," he says.

Enola's shoulders slump. "Oh."

It's awkward for a few moments, but John asks a few questions about her old school and some of her interests, and Enola babbles away, beaming and gesturing about wildly. He's almost sad to get to the Tube station.

Enola turns and looks at him, slight nervousness in her eyes. John hesitates for a moment, then reaches out and pats her on the arm.

"You'll be fine," he says. "I'm sure you'll be smarter than all of your classmates and will find the whole thing incredibly boring and tedious."

Enola giggles, in spite of herself. "I'm not Sherlock," she says. "I like school!" She tugs her skirt down again and lowers her eyes. "Thanks for walking with me."

"It was no problem, really," he says. "I'll be happy to walk with you on days I have to go to the clinic." He holds up and shakes his medical bag, and she grins.

Enola takes a deep breath and looks down the stairs into the station. "Well, I better be off," she says.

"Have fun," John says drily. "Try not to blow anything up." She grins at him one more time and trots off down the stairs. John waits until she's out of sight and turns back the way they came.

Fifteen minutes later, when he trudges back up the stairs to 221B, Sherlock is still lying in the exact position as when they'd left. John sets his bag by the door and pulls off his jacket, heading into the kitchen to eat the piece of toast he'd made earlier.

"Your shift doesn't start for another two hours," Sherlock mumbles.

 _No shit_ , John thinks, sighing. He turns around and startles back at how intensely Sherlock is watching him.

"You told Enola it was now." Sherlock says, rolling over so he's sitting up, robe slipping off of his shoulders.

John shrugs and doesn't argue. "You going to tell her?" Sherlock raises an eyebrow like it was a stupid question, and John smiles at him innocently. "Thought so. Want a cuppa?"

* * *

Enola kicks a pebble in her way and scowls at the ground. _Stupid Tewky_ , she thinks. _Can't keep his nose in his own damn business_.

In the week she'd been at her new school, Tewky was one of the boys she'd had the displeasure of becoming acquaintances with. He seemed to think they were friends, and Enola wasn't quite sure where he got that idea from. Today, he'd stolen Enola's pink fan, a gift from Cecily, one of her old friends. And he never gave it back, she moped, grinding her teeth together.

 _If I get into a fight_ , she wonders, _can Mycroft erase it from my record?_ She muses on that thought for a moment, suddenly interested in just how far Mycroft's "minor position" could get her.

All of a sudden, the loud wailing of police cars zoom past, and she turns to look. The wind kicks up her hair into a wild, curly mess in her face, and she makes a face. She pushes it back and hikes her backpack up higher on her shoulders.

 _Case!_ She thinks, all thoughts of Tewky banished from her mind. Sherlock did promise her she could see one. Immediately, she turns around and begins running after the wail of the sirens in the distance. She ducks and jostles past people, throwing hasty apologies over her shoulder.

When she catches up to the police, she's completely winded, her skirt has ridden up, and her hair is even more of a mess than it usually is. The police have already blocked off an alleyway with yellow tape. She inches her way past the talking officers and squad cars until she's up against the building, peering around the corner. She can only see the faint outline of the body, legs unnaturally sprawled out, and she crinkles her nose. She's going to have to get closer.

Enola shimmies down, prepared to crawl under the tape, when a loud "HEY!" is yelled out from behind her. She freezes and looks over her shoulder.

A handsome, older man with greying hair is watching her, arms crossed. A younger woman with curly brown hair stands next to him, hands on her hips. She grins sheepishly at them and does her best to put on her most innocent expression.

"What are you doing?" the woman asks. "Are you trying to sneak in?"

"Oi, she's just a kid," the man says. He waves a hand towards the woman, dismissing her. "I'll handle this. Go supervise Anderson." The woman gives her another curious look but walks off.

Enola straightens up. "I was just looking," she protests, pulling down her skirt and trying to pat down her hair. "Honest."

The man sighs, rubbing a hand down the side of his face. "Yeah, I bet. Here, what's your name?"

"Enola," she says. The man's lips twitch to the side like he's fighting the urge to smile.

"I'm Greg," he says. "Look, let me call your parents to come pick you up."

Enola takes a quick glance at the cameras on the nearest building. They're swiveled in her direction, trained on her. She resists the urge to groan; Mycroft's probably already on his way.

"I already texted my brother," she lies smoothly. "He's on his way."

Greg nods, buying it. "I'll wait for him to show up. Do you want something to drink?"

Enola casts one last longing look at the crime scene over her shoulder and nods. Greg waves a hand for her to follow and leads her over to one of the patrol cars. A drink holder rests on the hood, and Greg pulls out one of the cups and hands it to her.

"All we have is coffee," he says apologetically. "It's for one of our... detectives; he's a bit of a nut about that sorta thing. He'll probably get here in a few minutes."

Enola drinks it and crinkles her nose. "Black, two sugars. That's how my brother drinks his. He's a bit strange about that, too."

Greg grins at that. "How many brothers do you have?"

"Two," Enola says. She leans back against the car and lets her backpack drop against her feet. "I'm the youngest. You?"

"Only child," Greg says, shrugging his shoulders. "It was great." Enola snickers at that, and mumbles out an "I wish."

Greg takes a swig out of his own cup and looks at her thoughtfully. "Do you want to be a detective?" he asks. She looks at him, an eyebrow raised, and Greg hurries to clarify. "You know. With the whole sneaking into crime scenes and all."

Enola thinks about that for a second. "I kinda want to be a Perditorian," she says. "I guess it runs in the family. My brother's a detective."

"Oh, really?" Greg says, looking at her with interest. "Is he on the force? Maybe I know him."

"Probably," Enola says. She takes another sip of her coffee and wrinkles her nose again. "He's a consultant."

"A consultant?" Greg repeats, frowning a bit. His eyes widen, and he swivels around to look at her even more closely. "Bloody hell, you don't mean-"

"Enola," a familiar voice smoothly interrupts. Both turn to see Sherlock stomping towards them, a scowl on his face. "What are you doing here?"

Enola sniffs and sticks her nose in the air. "I was investigating," she says petulantly.

" _Sherlock's_ your brother?!" Greg says in disbelief.

Sherlock swivels towards him, looming. "Lestrade, what is my sister doing here?"

"Don't look at me!" Greg argues. "She was the one bloody trying to sneak into the crime scene!" He stiffens and shakes his head. "I should've known," he moans. "Sneaking onto crime scenes. Duh."

Sherlock ignores this and focuses on the coffee in her hand. "Is that mine?" he asks in further disbelief.

"Wait, _you're_ Detective Inspector Lestrade?" Enola exclaims, turning to Greg and giving him an appraising look. "I thought your name was Graham, not Greg." Greg shoots Sherlock a look that says 'we have worked together for five plus years I cannot believe you _still_ don't know my name'. Sherlock rolls his eyes, unabashed. "Oh, this is so cool!" she squeals.

Lestrade swipes a hand down the side of his face. "Jesus, Sherlock, you never told me you had a sister."

Sherlock shrugs. "It has always been a rather irrelevant fact." He reaches into the car between Enola and Greg and pulls out a pair of latex gloves, snapping them on. "Where's the body?"

Greg waves in the approximate direction of the alleyway, and Sherlock strides off, not bothering to look back.

"Where's John?" Enola calls out. Sherlock pauses for a moment, making a face.

"At the surgery. Working," he all but sneers. He turns around and studies her for a moment. "I do need an assistant," he says thoughtfully.

Enola's eyes grow wide with excitement, and Greg jerks back. "No way, Sherlock. John is one thing, but she's just a kid!" Enola gives him an affronted look, and he shrugs. "Nothing personal, Enola. Mycroft would kill me."

"Since when have you cared about procedure?" Sherlock scoffs. "You constantly let me traipse all over your cases." Greg bristles for a moment, but then deflates.

"Can't argue with that one," he says, looking entirely too much like a world-weary parent. "Fine. Five minutes." Enola grabs a pairs of gloves and scampers off after her brother. "But!" he holds up a hand, and Enola freezes, looking at him over her shoulder. "If Mycroft shows up, it's all on you, Sherlock. Not me."

Sherlock weighs the options for a few moments. "Fine. Come, Enola." He turns and stalks off, and Enola waits for Greg to catch up and matches his pace.

"My brother fancies you, you know," she whispers conspiratorially.

Greg blinks. "Sherlock?!" he says, looking at her with the utmost disbelief. He twists back to ogle the man in front of him, brow creased and jaw hanging slightly slacked.

Enola scoffs. "Please," she says. "Haven't you seen him around John? I meant Mycroft." She skips off to where Sherlock is waiting impatiently and holding up the police tape for her to cross. Greg follows after her, dumbfounded, and Sherlock lets the tape drop on his face.

 _These Holmeses are going to kill me_ , he thinks, and he follows them anyway.

* * *

 **Don't you just love John & Enola bonding? The next chapter continues with the crime scene, with Sherlock & Enola shenanigans. **

**R &R.**


	3. Chapter 3 - Strawberry

**This is a short one, a thank you to jwxsh who beta'ed my last fic - _your wicked blood and your curls_ \- which is on A03 if you want to read it. **

**By the way, I'm wohtson on Tumblr if you want to talk to me now.**

 **This chapter happens later than the first two. Just pretend Johnlock is established, alright? Chapter 2's part two will be up eventually. There's also one brief mention of jolto.**

 **Enjoy.**

* * *

Enola braces herself for entry into the flat, wiping the tears off of her face and plastering on a fake smile. Her breath hitches, and the smile drops. Sherlock would know she'd been crying anyway, but hopefully he wouldn't call her on it.

She slowly steps inside, holding her breath past Mrs. Hudson's, tiptoeing up the stairs, and shutting the door carefully behind her. Sherlock's not in the sitting room, and she allows herself to let loose the breath she'd been holding. It hitches, and the tears start falling again, and she lets her book bag fall on the ground.

"Enola?" A familiar voice calls out, and immediately she stiffens and whirls around so her back faces them. She can hear footsteps - John's - pad out of the kitchen. She curses mentally, forgetting all about his day off from work.

"Sorry," she says, her voice more raspy and hoarse than she'd like. She swipes another hand over her face, clears her throat, turns back around, and forces a smile. "I didn't know anyone else was home."

"Sherlock's out doing God-knows what," John says, rolling his eyes. She makes a humming noise in agreement, her shoulders shuddering slightly. John notices this and squints at her closely, eyes widening. "Are you okay? Enola, what's wrong?"

"It's nothing," she says, cursing herself mentally for letting her body betray her. He's looking more and more concerned, and she hastily decides to lie, "I failed a test today."

John raises an eyebrow. " _You_ failed a test?" he repeats, looking at her in disbelief.

Enola nods. "It was a math test," she adds lamely, biting her bottom lip. She scuffs one of her shoes into the carpet.

John chews on the inside of his cheek for a moment, considering this. She can tell he doesn't believe her. "Well," he says slowly, gesturing behind him to the kitchen. "I was just about to have some ice cream. Join me?"

Enola hesitates. What she really wants is to go to her room, but she doesn't want to be rude. "What flavor?"

"Strawberry," John says, and Enola sort of smiles, in spite of herself.

"That's my favorite," she says. He grins back at her.

"Mine too." John turns to go head back into the kitchen, telling her to drop her stuff off in her room and come back. She trudges to her room, throws her things on her bed. She hastily scrubs her eyes one last time before heading back to the kitchen, shoving her phone in her back pocket.

John's sitting down on one of the chairs, already digging into the carton. He looks up when she walks back in, spoon in his mouth, and holds out another to her.

"They're both clean," he promises. "Experiment free. I washed them myself."

She takes it and sinks onto the stool next to him, half-heartedly digging the spoon in and getting a bite. She rests her chin on her palm.

They eat in silence for a few minutes, Enola moodily stabbing her spoon in the tub. John watches her, eyebrow raised. "Well," he says finally, a little hesitant, "I may not be your brother, but I can still tell that something's wrong. Do you want to talk about it?"

Enola sighs, scrapes off another bite and sticks it in her mouth. "Cecily broke up with me today."

"Oh," John says sympathetically, a knowing look on his face. "Relationship trouble." He pushes the bin closer to her. "I think you need this more than I do."

Enola circles an arm around the bin and eats another scoop. She waves her spoon in the air and scowls. "Over a _text_!"

John makes a face. "Did she say why?"

"She's moving to Italy," Enola says. "Her parents are going through a divorce. Her mom's trying to move away from her dad. She's just afraid it's not going to last."

"She's probably going through a lot right now," John says. He sets his spoon down on the table, looking thoughtful. "Maybe you can still stay friends?"

Enola's shoulders slump a little, and she half-heartedly twirls her spoon around. "That's what she said. But that never works."

"You never know," John says, pointing his spoon at her. "I think if you're dedicated enough, anything's possible."

She screws her lips up to the side. "I guess so," she says, unconvinced. "Have you ever had a long distance relationship?"

John looks a little sheepish, and she snorts. "I thought so."

"It just didn't work out," John protests. "When I was deployed, we were going to try. But," he shrugs, trailing off. "It didn't. She met somebody new."

"Oh," Enola says, suddenly a little embarrassed. "That's terrible."

John grins, looks moony-eyed for a moment. "Well, it wasn't fun at the time, that's for sure. But I met someone, too; his name was James. My commanding officer," he adds, and Enola's eyebrows shoot up to her hairline. "Then I got shot, met Sherlock, and the rest is history."

Enola crinkles her nose at the mention of her brother. "As happy as I am for you two, _ew_."

John picks up his spoon and sneaks a bite of ice cream while she's distracted. He pats her on the shoulder. "You'll meet someone else," he promises. "Was she your first girlfriend?"

Enola nods, her lips curling to one side in a sorry half smile.

John mimics it. "First love is always hard."

Enola puts another spoonful of strawberry in her mouth. "Yeah? Who was your first crush?" she asks, mumbling around the mouthful.

John's cheeks tinge with pink, and he sticks his spoon in his mouth and shakes his head. Enola furrows her brow a bit and grins, nudging his arm with her elbow.

"Come on, John," she wheedles. "You can tell me; it's only embarrassing when you talk about Sherlock."

John's cheeks turn a little bit redder. "Don't tell Sherlock," he warns, and she mimes zipping her lips and throwing away the key. "Pierce Brosnan."

Her eyes light up. "So that's why we're always watching Bond movies!" She laughs and laughs, and John grins a little sheepishly at her, and Enola feels so much better now.

* * *

Sherlock storms in and slams the door behind him. He pulls off his scarf and throws it on the couch, stomping over and plopping down. Molly kicked him out of the lab. Again.

He hears a stray giggle in the kitchen and frowns. Another one follows a few moments later, and Sherlock narrows his eyes. He pops back up and sticks his head around the corner to the kitchen.

John and Enola are sitting at the table, a melted tub of ice cream between them, sticky pink stained on their faces. Enola is holding her stomach and giggling, John laughing and widely gesturing to go on with a story.

"And so, she was standing there, still waiting on me, barbecue sauce all over her skirt, and Tom and I were trying to get the pants back on the-"

Enola is absolutely howling, John completely immersed in telling the story. Neither notice he's there. Sherlock blinks rapidly before high-tailing it out of there, taking the stairs two at a time up to his and John's room.

* * *

Enola's helping John wipe up the kitchen when her phone vibrates in her back pocket. She pulls it out and frowns, flipping it around so the screen faces John.

 _Cecily_ , it reads. He raises an eyebrow wordlessly.

She hesitates, finger hovering over the answer button. He inclines his head towards her.

"Well?" he asks. "Aren't you going to answer it?"

Enola hesitates for a moment more, purses her lips, and hits accept. She holds it up to her ear.

"Hello?" she says hesitantly. "Cece?"

The voice on the other hand babbles something that John can't quite make out. Enola bites her lip and presses her phone to her shoulder.

"She says she wants to talk," she tells John, heart fluttering in her chest. "Maybe she wants to get back together?"

John rolls one of his shoulders. "Go talk to her, then," he whispers, and Enola lifts the phone back to her ear.

"Yeah, I'd like to," she says, almost shyly. She hesitates, John still watching her, amused. "Can you hold on a moment though?"

Cecily must agree, because Enola lowers her phone again, and she beams at him. "Thank you," she says, to which he waves a hand as if it was no big deal. In a split second decision, she leans forward to give him a side hug, one that he returns, surprised.

She turns and walks off to her room, phone to her ear. "Yeah, I'm back; what is it exactly you wanted to talk about? Because if you called to break up with me again, I'm hanging up on you."

John snorts, shaking his head. He puts the tub of ice cream back in the freezer and leans against the counter. _First love_ , he thinks, shuddering slightly. _Ugh_. He makes a mental note to buy more ice cream and heads up the stairs to go join Sherlock.

* * *

 **I love John & Enola being bros, bonding and all that. This is loosely based off of a textpost about Sherlock & Rosie by atikiology on Tumblr, but I changed it up a bit to fit this AU. **

**Also, I was going to leave this fic incomplete because I hadn't gotten any feedback on it. So thank you sooo much for the three of you who reviewed! This one was also for you.**


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